Past Regrets & Present Dilemmas
by sliceofperfection
Summary: Cora requests Baxter disclose the full extent of her story in order to make a decision about her maid's future employment at Downton. Initially reluctant for the shame such a revelation might cause her, a nightly exchange with Mr. Molesley, gives her reason to reconsider. Will she stay, or will she go?


_You must tell me tonight._

The words still rang through her ears as Baxter tried to hone in on the bits and pieces of the latest debate that descended upon the servants table over dinner. Her mistress' earlier words took precedence over the divided political discourse that had Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes volleying opinions back and forth, garnering the rest of the staff's rapt attention. When pushing the food around her dish felt too contrived, she was grateful for the excuse to glance up, and shift her gaze between the pair of them like everyone else was doing.

And for a while it seemed to work. She didn't have to dwell on past events that she reluctantly carried into the present. She could pretend that the foolish, wide eyed girl who thought she knew everything there was to know about love wasn't anything more than a distant memory. A vision she concocted in a dream. A dream that only turned into a nightmare and not a horrific retelling of her life.

Yes, Baxter could pretend she'd simply stolen those jewels because it was convenient. Because they were simply _there_ and the impulse to greedily snatch them up from their resting place among the velvet trays in Mrs. Benton's multi-layered jewelry box had become too great. She could claim she'd grown envious of her employer. Jealous of the extensive lot Mrs. Benton had so fortunately been cast in obtaining a man who adored her, and a beautiful house filled with lovely things.

Why couldn't she have all of those things? What made Mrs. Benton so special? The answer found Baxter one night as she felt the many cold slaps of coming down on her in between his harsh words.

Mrs. Benton was a married lady. She was well respected. Worthy of a man's love. Phyllis Baxter was nothing more than a common whore. She was deemed corrupt. Worthless.

His words became the only truth she believed. The way in which she began to see herself. But there was still a tiny voice in her head shrieking, _how wrong he is, that isn't you, you aren't those things,_ in a ceaselessly mantra. But she didn't dare speak the words out loud, for fear of his ire crashing down upon her. For fear that Mrs. Benton would notice the bruises and remark to someone out of concern.

He wasn't always so cruel. There were times when he'd sneak some flowers from the garden in her room just to make her smile. Or when his fingers would casually brush against the back of her hand while they walked into town, side by side. How he'd pull out her chair for her before sitting down beside her at dinner.

He was the first man to ever pay her any mind. The first one to tell her she was beautiful when she was used to be referred to as plain. The only one who's one true desire was to make her his wife. At least, that's what he told her whenever she gave herself completely to him down by the stables when the rest of the house was fast asleep.

But afterwards it felt different. Something changed in him. He found their act of lovemaking to be dirty and indecent. The fact she could give herself to another man so freely made him suspicious. And everything Baxter thought she knew about him, about his intentions or where they were headed, shifted.

It wasn't until months later, when she found herself curled on her side against the cool floor, gasping for air as the wrath of his anger kicked at her sides over and over again that Baxter knew she reached her limit. So she demanded asylum, threatened to uncover his deplorable behavior if he didn't agree to her terms. It was bold, and perhaps stupid, given the sharp blade she found pressed into her cheek soon after.

He claimed he wasn't heartless. That he would benevolently give her what she so thoughtlessly demanded. Had he asked her nicely, things might have turned out differently. The severity of her tone, the audacity she displayed towards him, would surely cost her.

And she tirelessly counted his price over the course of three years as she sat quietly in her cell or marched about the yard in between murderers and petty thieves alike. She never forgot the items, nor their meaning, or why they needed to be bought.

A pearl necklace with a ruby clasp. A gift Mr. Benton gave to his wife on their honeymoon. Enough for a steamer ticket. Two diamond bracelets. Each gifted after the birth of their two children. To cover the first month's cost of his new lodgings. Four rings. One belonging to Mrs. Benton's mother as a parting gift, another marking her engagement, the third a present from her mother-in-law as a welcoming token, and the fourth from her husband to mark a significant anniversary. All of which, she knew he'd pawn for pleasure in women and whiskey.

Seven items that amounted to the cost of her freedom. Seven items she believed she'd be grateful for stealing. Seven items that haunted her still, and made her feel deep shame.

If her face reddened, no one noticed. If the tremor in her hands suddenly grew so great that her spoon rattled against the fine bone china bowl in front of her, no one remarked. Baxter was never more grateful that Anna and Thomas had joined into the great political debate that seemed to have captured everyone's attention except her own.

That is, until she lifted her spoon full of stew and her gaze met Mr. Molesley's from further down the other side of the table.

From the steadiness of his gaze, it was apparent he'd been watching her. But for how long? Had he noticed the glazed over look in her eyes, suggesting her mind was miles away? Did he see the obvious nerves manifesting in her simple gesticulations? She couldn't be sure he saw any of it.

The stew felt thicker as it slowly slid down her throat, and Baxter swore Mr. Patmore had been toying with the consistency on purpose. Although she couldn't offer up any realistic explanation for tonight's dinner feeling more unpleasant for digestion, since nobody had crossed the cook to her own knowledge. So Baxter chalked it up to the looming conversation with Lady Grantham that was scheduled to unfold and nothing more.

She smiled weakly in Mr. Molesley's direction, only for him to look away just as quickly as their eyes had met. Letting out a quiet sigh, Baxter peered back into her bowl sullenly.

One of her worst fears imagined had come to life. He saw her differently now, and she no longer believed anything she said to Lady Grantham could alter his poor opinion of her. If anything, she'd only look more abominable in his eyes.

Baxter spooned up more of her dinner and forced it down, certain now this might be her last hot meal in a while.

* * *

><p>Mr. Molesley wasn't certain how much time had passed since nearly everyone had gone up for bed. He sat in the darkened dining room, sitting back in one of the wooden chairs and staring thoughtfully into the fire. The orange and yellow flames lazily licked at the logs, now charred. The outer bark was being to slowly peel away as enough heat was applied to the woods surface. The warmth felt comfortable from where he was sitting. But he was certain if the logs in the hearth could talk, they'd offer up a different opinion of being placed in the fire.<p>

When the brightness of the flames stung his eyes, and making them water he looked up at the dark ceiling for several moments. Intricate patterns of light danced across his vision, and his mind began to wander back to the other day when he saw them flare up in front of his eyes when he stood in the dimly light servants yard the other night.

He was staring into the glowing embers in the outdoor pits, trying to process the information regarding Miss. Baxter's history. He refused to believe she acted out of malice. Out of jealousy or greed. She wasn't like that. At least, not in the time he'd gotten to know her at Downton.

There had to be a reason. A cause for her decision to steal from the Benton's. Something that brought her so much embarrassment or shame, she felt better letting everyone think she'd done something dreadful because of a glaring defect in her nature.

When he heard the soles of her shoes clip clopping over the uneven cobblestone, he kept his head bent forward telling himself he wasn't going to look at her until she spoke directly to him. So he stared more intently into the fire, ignoring the brightness burning into his eyes and stirring up silent tears.

She came to him with a meekness that left an ache in his chest. She was remorseful for her crime, yet she refused to allow him to see any good in her in spite of it. He tried to look in her eyes for a semblance of a clue that might lead him to the meaning behind her crime. He found nothing at first, but soon came to understand she wasn't the single agent on the case.

She hadn't acted alone. Her shifting countenance from sadness to mild terror at his supposition gave away this much. And the obvious pause before her response of, Maybe not, only reaffirmed he was correct. She had been coerced into acting out of character for some unknown reason, and that was good enough for him. And even though she fell back into habits of deep seeded self blame and regret, Molesley felt a piece of his heart returning. She was indeed the good, kind woman he had begun to care for.

But she would discount him before he could tell her that maybe she didn't have to rewrite that portion of her life. Before he could tell her how he really felt about her, she bowed her head out of resignation and left him rooted on the spot.

He hoped perhaps tonight, two days following their exchange in the servant's yard, he might catch her on her way back from Lady Grantham's bedchambers. They might be able to steal a few minutes, just the two of them, so that she might finally know what she meant to him.

He would tell her how he felt. How she made him feel braver than he thought he could ever be. How he made her feel wanted and hopeful at the possibility that he could matter so much to another person. He'd never felt so important to anyone in his life. Then he met her, and she changed him for the better. Restored his confidence and self worth, even when he was at his lowest.

He would tell her the next chance he got. He had to. It might change things. Change her mind and make her see that no matter what she'd done before coming to Downton, he wouldn't be shocked. He'd find a way to understand. For her, he'd try anything.

It was at this moment, he heard the familiar tapping of Mr. Bates' cane coming down the stairs, followed by the lighthearted breath of laughter he recognized as Anna and Madge. He wondered if Miss. Baxter was among them.

Leaning forward in his seat, Molesley craned his neck so he could make out the three figures retreating towards the other end of the hall. He held his breath, waiting with rapt attention for any other signs of movement that would signal her arrival. The muscles in his shoulders started to ache, and after several moments of being met with nothing but a dark silence, Molesley sat back again in the chair.

His attention shifted back to the fire, but it didn't linger long. For he heard the door from upstairs slam unexpectedly, prompting him to jump in his seat. He froze in place, listening attentively to the shuffling of feet, and the creaking of the wooden stairs. Molesley stood from his chair, and swiftly moved towards the doorway.

He half expected her to see him when she turned at the bottom of spiral staircase. He straightened the front of his jacket, and rolled back his shoulders determinedly. He swallowed to ensure the words wouldn't stick in the back of his throat, and his eyes squinted to take into her figure hurrying down the stairs.

But instead of their eyes meeting, him stepping forward and finally explaining to her that he'll always be fond of her no matter what she's done, something unexpected occurred. There was a rustling that accompanied her hurried steps, followed by jagged breathing. Her head was bent forward, and she hugged the heavy garments that belonged to Lady Grantham to her chest. It was either too dark or her mind was too preoccupied, for she turned swiftly and scurried down towards one of the rooms used for mending, leaving him lingering in the doorway to the dining hall, unnoticed.

He frowned, confused by how distraught she appeared. He sensed that perhaps something was off during dinner. She barely touched her food, and mostly kept her opinions on the heated debate to herself save for a few murmurs and nods of agreement. But he never anticipated it was anything more than the tension built up between them. Obviously her reaction was charged by something far more serious.

Molesley wondered if he should go after her to uncover the source of her distress, or if he should leave her be. In thinking back to her response to his unexplained silence whenever Mr. Barrow unleashed the truth of her past, she didn't leave him be. She sought him out, full of deep seeded concern that there was something wrong between them. And while he didn't believe he was the sole source of her distress, Molesley still felt compelled to go after her.

It wasn't difficult to detect where she was hiding. The door was slightly ajar, and the unmistakable sounds of stifled sobbing shot out in between rifts of uneven silence. His knuckles rapped light against the wood out of polite formality before he pushed open the door to step inside.

Her hands were pressed flat against the table in front of her, shoulders hunched forward. In the split second it took for him to open and close the door behind him, he heard several sniffing sounds preceded by shaky exhales.

"Miss. Baxter?" He began uncertainly, hovering awkwardly between the door and table she was standing nearby.

He took in her back, and noticed her hands wiping away at her eyes before she turned to look up at him with a strained smile. "Mr. Molesley," She responded, her voice crackling with emotion. "I thought everyone had gone to bed."

Clasping his hands behind his back, he nodded. "Nearly everyone. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are still awake…no doubt planning for tomorrow's events."

Her curved smile straightened, and she lowered her gaze back to the table. "Of course they would be," She murmured in a barely audible voice. Her resolve nearly crumbled again. Eyes squeezing tightly shut, her hands balled into the fabric of the dress resting atop the table.

"Is…" He took a couple steps forward, pausing a few feet away from her so as not to overwhelm her, "…is everything alright, Miss. Baxter?"

He watched her inwardly struggle with disclosing her true feelings before she settled on a halfhearted reply, "I-I'm to leave tomorrow morning."

Molesley felt as though someone knocked the wind out of him. His face flushed with shock, his heart rate picking up pace again. Concern invaded his tone as he asked, "Wh—what? Why?"

Her dark brown eyes flickered up, meeting his for a split second before she managed to explain with a heaviness that weighed down his heart as much as her words. "Her Ladyship has relieved me of my services."

"What?"

None of it still made any sense to him. Especially whenever Baxter never gave any indication that her unveiling the truth to Lady Grantham would threaten her employment at Downton.

So Molesley took a few more paces towards her, just stopping at the end of the table this time. "I-I don't understand. Why would she…? It's not because of…your past…is it?" He leaned into the table, bringing a hand to rest on top of it.

Letting out a deep felt sigh she admitted sadly, "It is."

"But—but—but surely she doesn't believe you could do it of your own free will," He insisted with a shrug, hugging his arms around his chest.

She shook her head, and muttered with a downcast expression. "No, I don't think she does."

"Then…perhaps you should explain it to her. She always seemed like a fair woman to me. I'm sure she'd listen to reason if you tell her the whole story." He suggested with every bit of encouragement he could muster to lift her plummeting spirits.

"I can't," She grimaced at the thought, as if it repulsed her. "I can't explain it. Not to her. It wouldn't make an ounce of difference."

"You don't know that," Molesley argued lightly.

"I do," Baxter peered up at him, her worry clearly splayed across her expression and obvious through her trembling tone, "She could never understand. She's been bred so proper. Not like…" She paused, and he wondered if she was about to confess another piece of the story. But she soon closed her mouth, focused her attention back to the dress, and then shook her head slowly in defeat. "Even if she did decide to keep me on, she'd never see me as respectable again."

"But…where will you go?" He wondered cautiously, hoping she'd at least have someone she could rely on until she landed on her feet once more.

"I don't know," She exhaled shakily, her shoulders lifting with uncertainty.

His chest throbbed, but he hoped she'd at least have some sort of reference from her Ladyship when she did leave in the morning. So he couldn't help but probe further, "What will you do?"

Tilting her head to one side, she considered this for a few moments before responding, "Maybe I'll work in a factory or something."

"A factory?" He gaped, slightly taken aback by her response. "You're far better than that."

"Am I really though?" She lamented quietly, her fingers smoothing out the hem on Lady Grantham's dress.

Her disbelief in his high opinion of her shocked him. He told before her in not so many words that he only wanted the best for her. That he was on her side no matter what. But perhaps he needed to take a more direct approach. So he opened his mouth and admitted softly, "I think you are."

He peeked up behind his half lowered lids, only to see her face contorting with palpable emotions he somehow stirred up in her again. Just when he unlooped one of his arms, and started to reach for her, Baxter turned away with the gown in her arms, thrusting open the doors to the full length armoire.

"It makes no difference what you think," She remarked evenly, pulling the hanger off the rack. Although he could hear other emotions pervading her words, there was some frustration evident in her voice, "The rest of the world won't see it that way."

"But if you just told her Ladyship _why_ you did it, I'm sure she'd reconsider her decision."

It all seemed so easy to him. So clear cut. Entirely black and white. If she wasn't acting alone, why wouldn't she take the chance to explain herself? Especially when so many people who cared for her well being wanted to know how a hardworking, kind woman could be counted as nothing more than a petty thief.

She seemed to sense his frustrations with her. Baxter whirled around after closing the closet doors, her arms crossing over her chest, and she shot back just as moved back towards him, "Who's to say she'd want to keep me on once she heard the whole story? She could just as easily let me go as she's done just now."

She was right. But there was another point she hadn't considered. One that he wholeheartedly believed in uncovering, "You won't know unless you try."

He saw the distinctive frown forming at her mouth, her eyes narrowing out of confusion. "Why are you pressing me to tell her so badly?"

There it was. His invitation to express his feelings for her. To explain to her precisely how he felt about her, about what they could one day be. But his mind drew a blank. All of the meaningful things he dreamed of one day telling her, evaporated from his head. And he was left with disclosing the simple truth of, "Because I-I don't want you to leave."

Her mouth dropped open, as if she didn't hear him correctly. Her eyes widened, and he soon found them to be lining with tears, although he couldn't precisely pinpoint their origins.

He tried to offer her a smile of reassurance. To prove that his feelings and thoughts were nothing short of genuine. And Molesley soon found his hand hovering in midair awkwardly deliberating on whether or not he should touch her gently or merely take on a defensive stance again. He chose the former, his palm resting on her forearm, still crossed.

She flinched momentarily, eyeing his hand although she wasn't entirely sure what its next move might entail. Molesley followed her eye, and lightly began tracing invisible lines with his thumb across her arm.

"Please don't go," He muttered so quietly he wasn't sure she'd hear him. That is, until her gaze realigned with his, and she closed her open mouth, offering him a sad smile.

Baxter lowered her head and stepped back, out of his reach. "As I said to you once before, Mr. Molesley, I'd give anything to rewrite that part of my history. Even for you I would, if I felt it were possible." Her bottom lip trembled and she bit it to stop it, "But it-it's not. And I-I can't." Her brow inverted regretfully, and she closed her eyes until the silent tears slipped past her lids.

She turned on her heel, about to take her leave once more, and he nearly let her. But the second her hand rested on the door handle, he realized this might be his only chance. His last opportunity to tell her how he truly felt about all of it.

"You don't have to," He piped up suddenly, hoping his confidence rang through with this sudden declaration. He watched her slowly pivot, the confusion etching itself into her expression more blatantly now. "Rewrite that part of your history, I mean," He gestured with his hands out to the side, all the while telling her. "I would…understand. If you decided to tell me. I would...or I'd certainly try to."

Her lips curled into a weak half smile, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to steady its quivering, "I know you'd try to. But you really wouldn't."

Probably not. Her experiences as a woman would never be counted as equivalent to his own. So he could only really pretend to understand what she'd gone through. And even by pretending, or trying to see the world as she has, he wasn't sure he could make a difference. But he so desperately wanted to try. The thought of saying goodbye to her, in this way, was too difficult for him to stomach. So Molesley began again, "Isn't trying to understand someone better than giving up on them?"

Baxter's brow lifted once more, this time there was an almost hopeful lightness in her expression, however, the tear streaks down her cheeks made it evident that her pain remained. "I suppose…" She trailed off uncertainly, angling her face up towards his.

"Well what if I said…" He paused, and ambled across the room to meet her, "...what if I said that I…didn't want to give up on you, Miss. Baxter. Would that make any difference?" He hoped it might. But he wouldn't count entirely on it meaning much to her.

"Mr. Molesley," She sighed tiredly bringing a hand up to finger a loose piece of hair, "once you find out why I stole the jewels, I doubt very much you'll still feel that way."

"Look," He gently reached for her hand, bringing it down between them, "I'm not going to demand you explain it all to Lady Grantham in the hopes that she gives you your position back."

Her eyes flickered down in between them where their hands joined. He wondered if perhaps it was too much, if he was being too forward. He was about to retract his hand, but he felt her fingers suddenly lace through his. His mouth went dry, and instead of continuing on just as he confidently had moments earlier, he found himself stammering out the rest of his thoughts.

"But I just…I needed you to know…how I…feel…if you are in fact leaving in the morning. I'd probably regret it all of my life if I never said a word to you, and it could have made a difference."

She stared back at him, clearly bewildered by his admission. So he thought perhaps it best to leave things at this. That way their emotions couldn't get the better of them, or leave either one of them with any real regrets. Leaning forward, Molesley placed a quick kiss at her cheek before releasing his hold on her hand, and enveloping her into a tight hug.

He tried not to think about how her chin fit into the crook of his shoulder during the embrace, or how pleasant the woodland scent radiated from her skin. Instead, he released her only after a few seconds, nodded his head respectfully, and then cordially bid her farewell.

"Goodnight, Miss. Baxter. I wish you all the happiness in the world."

And before he could face her response, Mr. Molesley bowed out of the room.

* * *

><p>Phyllis Baxter remained frozen in place, experiencing various levels of shock and disbelief in response to what had just happened. She leaned back into the door for support as she reimagined his lips pressing hurriedly to her cheek, his arms wrapped around her middle, and drawing her body closer to his. It all happened so fast she didn't have time to return the gesture, her arms still pinned down at her sides.<p>

But it wasn't only the kiss and the warm embrace that had her stomach fluttering and her mind whirring. His words had struck various chords deep within her heart, playing a melody that was familiar yet altogether different.

She'd been charmed by a man once before, convinced to do things for him all the while believing it was for her own benefit. But each request was really just his way of twisting things around so he could get precisely what he wanted.

She felt Mr. Molesley had certainly become more charming. But he was also several other things her previous lover was not. He was patient, and good hearted. He only saw the best in people, and only wanted to see the best in her. But he'd also seen some of the worst parts of her already, and while they initially startled him, they didn't push him so far away that he wanted her to leave Downton forever.

And she didn't think he was manipulating her for his own benefit. Of course, he wanted her to stay given how deeply he cared for her. Of course, he'd be distraught if she left after he disclosed his true feelings for her. But he wouldn't keep her there if it wasn't what she wanted. If telling Lady Grantham would be too much for her to bear, he wouldn't force her into revealing her whole story. He wasn't like the other men who held her past against her.

He was different.

Baxter felt a stitch forming in her chest from the night's events. Perhaps she should have just told Lady Grantham everything. But then again, she couldn't predict that Mr. Molesley would confess a certain fondness for her the second he discovered she was leaving. She almost wish he had sooner. It might have been enough to give her the strength to reveal everything from concerning her crime to her employer.

It would have _definitely_ been enough. _Maybe it still was_, she thought hopefully before slipping out of the room, her decision clearer now.

* * *

><p>Once he finished serving breakfast for the family, he was determined to slip away back to his room until afternoon tea. He wasn't hungry. And even if he was, his stomach hurt so badly any sustenance would probably make him sick.<p>

She was gone. He told her how he felt, and she left anyway. He thought maybe his words might make a difference to her. That they actually meant something. He believed if the roles were reversed, anything she said would impact his decision to either leave or stay.

But this was the way things were. He'd come to accept them in time, just as he accepted his demotion from valet to footman. Still, today he was not in the mood to be the reliable, smiling face that everyone saw from the servants dining room. He couldn't be the voice of encouragement today. Not whenever he was crestfallen by the news of Miss. Baxter's departure.

As he stepped onto the the final landing in the twisted staircase, Mr. Molesley soon found his darkened mood was about to lighten significantly.

"Mr. Molesley?"

He froze as the soft, sweet intonation of his name came from just behind him. His head snapped up, and his hand clutched the railing more tightly.

Was he really so distraught that he was now imagining things? Surely, there had to be an explanation, he convinced himself while he slowly turned around to take in Miss. Baxter, standing just on the step above him.

He struggled to disguise his shock at her presence. A thousand questions circled through his mind. His eyes swept across her figure taking in the, rounded hat framing her face, still wrapped in her coat, and holding a single suitcase at her side. It didn't make any sense. If she'd gone, surely it would have happened before the family awoke for breakfast. Unless of course, Lady Grantham requested that she stay to dress her in the morning. His mouth closed, and the buoyant feeling in his chest sunk.

"Miss. Baxter," He nodded politely, trying to keep his tone even and void of any real emotions. "On your way out now, are you?"

"I was," She stepped down off the last step, and took a few steps closer to him. "But I'm not any longer," She admitted with a warm smile, her eyes alighting with gratitude.

"What?" His brow knit together, and he inclined his head towards her as if he hadn't heard her correctly.

"Her Ladyship's given me, my job back."

He blinked back at her out of sheer surprise. His heart beat more rapidly inside of his chest, and Mr. Molesley found himself smiling so broadly his cheeks might ache. "You mean you're…you're staying at Downton?"

She beamed up at him, and nodded. Clearly, she was just as pleased as he was with the outcome of this situation.

"So what…what changed your mind about telling her Ladyship?"

"Well," She began with a slight tilt of her head and a shrug of her shoulders as she inhaled deeply, "I thought about what you said last night, and I realized something."

There was a definite pause as she exhaled smoothly, her hands bringing the suitcase in front of her as she shifted her stance. Glancing up at him, she finished her thought softly, "I could never have all the happiness in the world if I left Downton without disclosing the whole truth. I'd probably come to regret it all my life. Just as I'd regret giving up on you."

His heart stalled at this realization, and he almost didn't hear the rest of what she had to say.

"So I spoke with her Ladyship, and she's decided to give me another chance."

"I-I'm glad you're here to stay, Miss. Baxter," He replied happily before tentatively reaching a hand out to cover hers.

Their gazes traveled down to where both of their gloved hands met, white overtop of black. The warmth radiating from both of them, as they felt a sense of belonging from the simplicity of the touch. After a moment of shifting her grip on the suitcase, she allowed him to take it for her, and they made their way back downstairs, this time, together.

He couldn't be certain what the future might hold for them. There would still be obstacles, and there were many unanswered questions he had for her. But for now, just knowing she was staying, knowing there was a part of her that didn't want to lose him as much as the part of him that didn't want to lose her, that was more than enough.


End file.
